Bobo I hide behind, but she took me into Berto, the uncle of my father, my grandfather's brother, whose name I now bear, the second son, I had to tradition. Emily Farmer, bachelor half the village idiot, good and gentle man, deflator of carboys, always in the middle of fights and whores, but one was his favorite girlfriend, Caterina, a woman and drunken round him from the country, full of wine , loaded on his shoulders to bring the barn, and when on the way she said "Bert I have to pee!" He even stopped and so replied "pee well, just do not shit." And so she left him with this statement jacket on the smell and warmth as a wine that the consumer returns to the producer, like a cat to mark its territory animal. My grandfather, his brother, had returned from America, where he went to make a fortune in ten years down the mine (to die a year after his return from silicosis as a reward) to buy some 'land and a mill and did not need anyone, especially the card for having to eat beam are, because it gave the mill to eat. Emilia Apennines are the ground hard, uphill, full of rocks and rough forged and big men, and then the war was even harder because there passed the so-called Gothic Line. The retreating Germans rounded up and killed like animals mad entire families, including the mine. And so even touched Berto, who with machine guns pointed Compulsory bags and stuff on their vehicles, while loading him with anger, perhaps hiding the fear, so grumbling and cursing ... "God is a God of porc Executioner! Catvengn a canker in the mouth, Executioner lader of a God ... "He did not finish the ordeal, the first shot.
And so I want to remember him as someone who swore to that life was unfair and too harsh and that perhaps that day had got up too badly and did not want to arrive in the evening. Almost indifferent even to murderers as well, perhaps not wanting to give them satisfaction, perhaps, to want to thank free him from a life of flies and manure and hoe in the sun, against which not even believe in God but that ' had put it there. And if God exists, certainly forgives him, and maybe also asks forgiveness. And so I hide behind Bobo, but inside harbor Berto. And when I say they are stronger with their asses and having lick, and sit in their ceremonies of empty words, I see faces who crave power, I see the same, those that give the order to shoot.
And then I hear a voice in me that says "I donut Bert! Bert Rundell "and began to curse!
From the book "Blood Fellow" of Bobo Rondelli, Titivillus Editions, 2006
0 comments:
Post a Comment